


Mercy's Eyes Are Blue

by Rovardotter



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: ASoIaF Kink Meme, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Captivity, F/M, Florian & Jonquil, Gen, Motherhood, Nursing, Stark Cuteness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-09
Updated: 2013-07-09
Packaged: 2017-12-18 05:50:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/876346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rovardotter/pseuds/Rovardotter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Her Florian arranged for her to see her captured brother. <em>Another Sansa, of another time, would have pressed her mouth into a thin line and corrected him – "Jon Snow is my half-brother" – but that Sansa was long dead.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Mercy's Eyes Are Blue

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [ASOIAF Kink Meme](http://asoiafkinkmeme.livejournal.com/).
> 
> Original Prompt was _due to imprisonment/sickness/whatever, Jon is starving and Sansa sustains him with her breastmilk. whether she's lactating because she's pregnant or because she already has a child doesn't matter, though I'd like it if the circumstances had Sansa conflicted. for the nursing itself, non-sexual but not platonic._
> 
> This is an AU where Sansa was forced to marry Joffrey, and Jon left the Night's Watch to fight alongside Robb, ending up attending the Red Wedding. Bear with me here.

The babe was an impostor.

He was absolutely normal. He slept most of the day, cooing away his little dreams. He hardly ever cried, and when he was hungry he moved his little fists and lapped at the air with his tiny lips. He took to the breast easily, sucked hungrily with his huge eyes watching her. He did not have Joffrey's plump lips or his thin blond hair. If anything, the babe looked at lot like Rickon had, that night when her lady mother first showed her a little bundle wrapped in furs, with brownish auburn hair, a red wrinkled face and big blue eyes.

"I'm on to you," Sansa told the babe. He wasn't going to fool her. This babe did not have a name yet, but he was a Lannister. A fraud, a cheat. A _murderer_. He was of the blood that took the head off her father, the blood that arranged the slaughter of her mother and her brother, and the blood who forced himself on her almost every night under the pretence of the holy ceremony of marriage.

The babe was the prince, the heir to the throne, and she, who once begged her mother so she could become queen, hated him for being her dream turned a nightmare.

The babe cooed and let go of her nipple, a drop of milk trickling down his lips. His eyes slowly closed as he drifted to sleep in her arms. "Yes, you do that," she told him. "Sleep well, as I never will again."

A knock was on the door. Sansa covered her breast quickly and wrapped the babe closer in her arms.

"My lady?" Dontos had been in his cups again. His thick face was red and sweaty. He was swaying as he entered the room, the blue and yellow motley of his tunic stained with dark red wine. Still, it was not an excuse for him to show up here, where everyone could see him, where he would put her in so much risk. Unless… _Unless_ …

"Come quickly, my Jonquil," Dontos said and stumbled over the side table, almost waking up the babe. "I have arranged it, I have! Come, my lady. Your Florian will bring you to your brother…."

Another Sansa, of another time, would have pressed her mouth into a thin line and corrected him – _"Jon Snow is my half-brother"_ – but that Sansa was long dead, along with her lord father, her lady mother, her sweet brothers and her sister.

"My poor, brave Florian," she said, her voice trembling.

She could not trust her maids to know she was leaving in the middle of the night, so Sansa kept the babe in her arms as Dontos led her through the maze of stairs and corridors of the Red Keep. The air grew colder and thicker, and the only light streamed from the torch in her poor Florian's shaking arm. They descended another flight of stairs into a room that smelt heavily of urine, stale food and the spilt wine of the two armoured guards who were slumped over a table, snoring heavily.

"Where is he?" Sansa whispered.

Dontos turned to her. "Ahead, my Jonquil. But I must warn you. He… your poor brother is not in good health."

"I shall see him now," she said, more sharply than she had intended. After all, it surely wasn't poor Dontos who broke all the rules of hospitality, slaughtered her family and captured her last remaining brother, only to put him in shackles and throw him into the darkness of the dungeons for gods only know how long it had been.

When she unlocked the cell and stepped inside, she could not help but be thankful to Dontos for choosing to remain in the guards' room. They say a man can stripped of anything but his dignity, but the Lannisters had almost stripped her poor brother even of that.

The room reeked heavily from the overflowing chamber pot in the corner. Jon was slumped against the wall, his shackled hands hugging his knees close to his chest. He was shivering, his mouth gaped open. His hair had grown long and wild in filthy black curls. Her poor brother had nothing on him but the shallow, yellowish skin on his bones. His cheeks were sunken, his eyes hungry, lost.

She dropped to her knees in front of him.

"Jon?"

He looked up. For a moment she thought he was too lost, too gone to recognise her. And then his lips curled up to a sort of a smile.

"Sansa." And then he smiled true. "Is that really you?"

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. What had they done to him? He didn't look like the brother she had left behind in Winterfell, a lifetime ago. He hardly even looked like a person anymore, emancipated, skin and bones, a living ghost. _Ghost_. He had lost his wolf, like she had. Both of them were not truly alive anymore.

"How long have I been here, Sansa?" he asked. His voice was gruff, as if he was learning to speak the words anew. He probably hadn't talked to anyone, at all, since they had brought him here, she realised with a start.

"Too long," she whispered. "I have tried to see you, please believe me. But I was… with this," she motioned at the babe, "I was watched, all the time. I would have come sooner, please believe me, Jon, please."

"I believe you," he said. "I didn't know…. Joffrey?"

She nodded, and then blurted out, "maybe it's a good thing Mother and Robb had died before seeing _this_. Seeing what they have done to me, what they have done to you. Have they tortured you, Jon?"

He shook his head. "I sometimes think they have forgotten all about me. At first they questioned me," he added, "but what could I have told them? My king is dead. His army scattered. The north is in ruins, wildlings and Ironmen… Winterfell is burnt. I'm no use to them."

"At least they don't hurt you anymore," she said.

"They don't feed me either," he was smiling again, a sad, resigned smile.

Sansa had so many things she wanted to tell him, things she wanted to ask him. She wanted to tell Jon about her anguish, her loneliness, of the nightly fear Joffrey might ask for her, about the grief, _the grief_. And she wanted to ask him if they had talked about her at all, and if her lady mother was angry with her, and had Robb understood why she had done what she had done, had they realised she too had to survive. Had they forgiven her before they died, she wanted to know.

But the man in front of her was not the brother she had left in Winterfell. He was trembling and as frail as a twig. And hungry, so very hungry.

"I wish I knew," she said miserably, "I'd have brought you food… Oh Jon, I'm so sorry."

He shrugged and put his head on his knees. "It's okay, Sansa. I will die soon enough for it to matter." Then he looked at her again. "I'd rather you just hug me."

She pulled him to her immediately, pressing against him with the sleeping babe between them, and embraced him fiercely. She didn't mind the smell, the dirt, it didn't matter. That Sansa who would care about such things was long dead, along with Winterfell and the King in the North. This was the last of her family, starving in her bosom.

 _Her bosom_. Her cheeks flushed at the sudden idea, but as soon as it popped into her mind there was no letting it go. She did not bring food from the kitchens, it was true, but the impostor babe was fat enough, was he not? She did not need to visit the kitchens to nourish her dying brother.

Before she had time to regret, she undid the ties of her nursing top. Jon looked up from between her arms, his glazed eyes confused.

"I have enough for two," she said, trying to sound more confident than she truly was. Would that even work? They said babes lost the ability to nurse as they grew older. Who could guarantee Jon would even know what to do?

He watched her uncertainly as she released a heavy breast from her undone shirt. The babe had been sleeping for a long while by now and her breast was swollen with milk and as hard as stone. Then she saw the comprehension shine in his hazy look.

"Sansa," he whispered.

"You will not die," she said and stroked his hair. "You won't. I won't allow it. Drink, I have enough."

She heard him sniffle under her arms, turn this way and that tentatively, and suddenly there it was. A warm wet mouth closed over her areola, and an eager mouth sucked hungrily at her nipple. It was much rougher than the babe's mouth; the latch of her brother's mouth sent shivers down her spine, and she felt the milk flowing inside her breast and spill into his famished mouth. The heat of Jon's mouth wrapped her as he started nursing greedily, fervently, his tongue lapping at her skin. Warm milk trickled down his lips and over his chin as tears clouded his eyes.

Sansa leant back in the filthy dungeon room and slowly stroked her brother's dirty curls. _He will not die_ , she thought angrily as he sucked her milk, swallowing heavily. _Not him. They will not take him away from me._

The babe suddenly cooed, and his blue eyes opened to look at them. If he was feeling jealous of his uncle drinking from his mother's breast, the babe did not show it. He hummed and watched them, moving his little fists over his tiny mouth.

Almost instinctively, Sansa bared her other breast, moved the babe to her side and put him to her nipple as well. For a long while they both drank, their eyelids half-closed, gulping lazily and deeply from her.

Then Jon released her nipple and laid his head on the soft breast, the colour returned to his skin, a few drops of yellowish white milk on his lips.

"It tastes like the pudding in Winterfell," he said, incredulous, "Robb and I got punished by your mother when we sneaked to the kitchens to get a second helping, you remember?" and he smiled. "Just like pudding…"

Sansa felt the tears on her cheeks. "Robb promised to bring me a lemon cake," she said, "but Mother took it away when she caught you two. And I hated her so much that I wished her dead." And now she truly started crying.

Jon moved his shackled arms around her, his lips on the skin of her neck. "I did too," he confided, "many times. We were young and stupid, Sansa, what in the seven hells did we even know..."

She kept moving her hand through his curls, tucking the damp, filthy locks behind his ear, as Jon rocked himself slowly on her chest, his head resting on the hollow of her neck. They both watched as the babe nursed himself back to sleep.

"He looks like a Tully," Jon said. "He looks like Robb, like Bran, like Rickon… he does."

 _No_ , she wanted to say. _He's an impostor. He's a Lannister, through and through_. But all she could think was, _we will run away, me and Jon and the babe. I will nurse them both. I will save them both. We will get away from King's Landing and Joffrey and the Queen and her hive of wasps. We will be a family, a true family._ Her blue eyed son looked like Robb, like Bran, like Rickon. Jon would help her raise her dead sweet brothers back to life.

"Does he have a name yet?" Jon asked.

She shook her head. "He's a Lannister. Let his father choose." But the words were ashen in her mouth. Jon thought he was a Tully. They would get away, _he will live, he will…_

"My lady?" Dontos wavered towards them from the darkness of the door, and Sansa did not care about her bare breasts any longer. "It is time. I am sorry."

She was numb as she rose to leave. Her legs were a harder stone than the walls of the cell. She craved Jon's mouth on her breast, her hand in his dirty hair. _My only brother. My only family. My only hope._

She turned and left him behind.

"Sansa?"

"Yes?" she was choking on her tears. She could not bear to look at him again.

"Call him after his grandfather."

"Father?" she asked, perplexed. "They would never let me… A traitor…"

"No," Jon said. "His _other_ grandfather. King Robert."

And she could feel his faint smile at her back. "Robb."


End file.
